


scrutiny, scales and sabatons

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental kidnapping, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Clint Barton, Clint Thinks Sex Is An Acceptable Substitute For Talking, Dragon Bucky Barnes, Explicit Sexual Content, Knight Steve Rogers, M/M, Magic, Multi, POV Alternating, POV Clint Barton, POV Steve Rogers, Prince Clint Barton, Rough Sex, Sort Of, Top Bucky Barnes, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24806818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: A prince, a knight and a dragon walk into a castle.There's no joke except for Clint supposedly running the country, Steve's inability to prioritize himself over his job, and Bucky's admittedly chaotic dragon instincts.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 84
Kudos: 332





	1. Chapter One - Clint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).



> Here we go! If you're looking for accurate medieval fantasy, this probably ain't it. Arson, enjoy your dragons. You've waited long enough. :D

“Your Highness.”

“Hmgh.”

“Your Highness, please.”

“No.”

“Your Highness, I am asking you nicely. I will not ask again.”

“And _I_ ,” Clint says without opening his eyes, “am asking you nicely to fuck off and let me sleep in peace. So stop it with the ‘Your Highness’ bullshit and go find someone else to nag at. Good day.”

There’s silence in reply to that. He rolls over and takes the armful of covers with him, tugs them over his head once he’s cocooned and lets out a sigh. Ah. He loves winning. He also loves sleeping in, especially when he’d spent the last night drinking his weight in wine and pretending to be interested in whatever drama the nobles have embroiled themselves in now.

Clint’s peaceful slumber is interrupted approximately twenty seconds later, as his bedcovers are yanked from his mattress and he’s dumped unceremoniously onto the cold wooden floors. He swears and tries to steal back a blanket to just sleep on the damn floor, but they’re pulled out of his reach. He groans and sags back onto the floor.

“You need to get ready,” Steve says. “Come on.”

“Leave me alone,” Clint grumbles, sitting up. Ugh, his head hurts.

“I can’t do that,” Steve replies but he looks a _tiny_ bit sympathetic, and he does offer a hand to help Clint to his feet. “You already annoyed all the maids in the country and I’m the only person who will put up with you.”

“Boy, that must be killing you,” Clint says jokingly. “Big ol’ knight and you’re ordered to help the crowned prince into his fancy clothes.”

Steve grimaces at that, which means Clint’s hit the nail on the head. He does feel a little bit of sympathy for the guy - sympathy which is instantly squashed when Clint sees the clothes that are laid out. It’s the gold shit, the real fancy stuff for when they’re pretending he’s a functional ruler and his disgust must be visible because Steve looks very, very resigned all of a sudden.

“You have a meeting with officials from a neighbouring country,” is all he says, though. “Fury wants you ready to meet them for lunch.”

Clint blinks blearily at the clock on the wall, which claims it’s only nine in the morning. Disgraceful. He steps into the pants Steve holds out for him and tries to pretend the world isn’t still spinning. There’s got to be a way to avoid this for a little while.

“It’s early,” he protests.

“It takes more than an hour to get you looking presentable,” Steve replies, picking a leaf out of his hair. “Do you do this on purpose?”

“Yes,” Clint says decisively. “What if we fuck off for a couple of hours? I could make it worth your while.”

Seduction has about a ten percent success rate with Steve Rogers - his sense of duty is pretty damn strong, but Clint’s figured out most of his weak spots by now and he knows how to trail his fingers real slow down Steve’s coat, bite his lip. Steve’s expression doesn’t change but Clint sees his pupils dilate just a little, thinks _bingo_.

“Your boots,” Steve says, laces them up for him.

It’d be intimate if _everyone_ didn’t do it - honestly, why do they think he can’t dress himself? At least Steve lets him put on his own shirt without complaining (the maids would be horrified, and then Clint would lock them out.) It’s the stupid shirt with the billowy sleeves and he flaps his arms with displeasure, sends a longing look at the open window.

“Look,” Clint says, smacks Steve’s hands away as he tries to button up his shirt. “I don’t do anything anyway. We both _know_ I don’t do anything. We could put a training dummy out there and they wouldn’t know the difference.”

“I have orders,” Steve says.

“Who from?”

“...Coulson,” Steve answers reluctantly.

“Cool,” Clint says cheerfully, tugging a cloak off the dresser. “I outrank him, and _my_ orders are that we go out for some fun before you leave me to my fate. C’mon.”

Clint hops up onto the windowsill and jumps for a nearby tree before Steve can argue with him, swings onto a branch and climbs around until he can get to the next rooftop. He doesn’t look back to see if he’s being followed; Steve’s not going to let him fuck around outside of the castle grounds without supervision.

As he’s heading past the stables he notices a couple of new horses, dressed in black and red garments. Curious. Must be from the people they want him to meet. Clint makes a note to bring them some treats from the kitchen and then picks up the rope he keeps coiled, hooks it to the stone wall and slides down.

A few seconds later there’s a grunt as Steve hits the ground behind him and Clint hides his smirk in the hood of his cloak, starts heading down the grassy hills and into the forest.

“You’re going to get me banished from the royal guard, you know,” Steve says wearily.

“Nah,” Clint says, turns around and catches Steve’s coat by the lapels, pulls him in close. “And even if they did fire you, I’d just rehire you as my royal consort.”

“That’s _definitely_ not allowed,” Steve answers but he’s smiling, and then Clint sweeps his legs out from under him, knocks him onto the grass and fallen leaves of the forest floor. Then he straddles Steve’s hips just because he can, leans down to kiss him.

Steve’s mouth is wet and hot, like an embarrassingly perfect dream. Clint never gets tired of this; of Steve’s big hands curling gentle over his hips, the familiarity in the way he kisses. It’s as good as the first time he’d done it, somehow satisfying and not enough at the same time.

A bird screams above them and Clint ignores it, focuses on Steve. The world tilts alarmingly and then Clint’s the one being pushed against the dirt and leaves. Steve pushes his wrists into the ground, holds him there and Clint lets out a blissful sigh.

“Did you bring any… equipment?”

“I have a shield,” Steve answers, catches Clint's earlobe in his teeth.

“That’s not what I - _ah_ , you dick.”

“I’ve got equipment, don’t worry,” Steve says. Why do people think he’s nice? It’s all a farce.

Nice or not, Clint’s happy to squirm his grass-stained pants down around his knees, lift his hips helpfully as Steve tugs the glove off his left hand with his teeth. The dappled sunlight filtering through the trees tints his skin green and gold, and then Clint’s thoughts trail off into nothing as Steve pushes one slick finger inside him.

They fuck right there on the ground, breathing hot into each others’ mouths and Clint pushing his hips back for harder, faster, more. It’s messy and Clint gets the sharp edge of a rock poked into the small of his back and somehow that just makes it _better_ \- he’s always been a sucker for things that aren’t exactly textbook perfect, and this is right up his alley.

Steve’s perfect, though.

He lingers on every part of Clint’s body he can reach; lips against Clint’s jaw, his neck, the inside of his elbow over the thin cotton of his shirt. It’s more tender than Clint’s expecting. (It’s almost like _lovemaking_ rather than simple fucking, and Steve’s always been a romantic but this feels like _more_ than that.)

“I’m-” Clint says desperately, breaks off on a whine as Steve’s dick slips out of him.

“Don’t come on your vest,” Steve says - why is he worrying about _clothes_ at a time like this? - and then he shifts and gets his mouth on Clint’s erection and Clint instantly forgets whatever complaints he’d had.

Two fingers slide inside him and curl just right and Clint’s voice cracks on a moan as Steve swallows him down, keeps going until he shudders and tries to push Steve away with boneless hands. It takes him a few shaky seconds to realize Steve’s jerking himself off and Clint sits up to watch his fingers work over his flushed cock, catches his lip in his teeth as Steve comes on the grass. (Part of him is a little disappointed by that, honestly.)

“Hell,” Clint says, a little breathless as he flops back on the grass. “I was going to go see Tony before you dragged me back, but now I kind of want to see round two.”

“You’re not getting a round two,” Steve replies.

Clint rolls his eyes. To be fair he wouldn’t normally get a round _one_ , but Steve’s being more indulgent towards him than usual. Maybe he’s finally coming around from all this honour-bound duty bullshit he signed on for. Maybe he feels bad about the early wake-up call.

Protests aside, Steve still kisses him again, cups his cheek gently with his (clean) hand and then presses their foreheads together.

“Why Tony’s?”

“I have to… check the magic’s still holding up,” Clint says, distracted by how close Steve is. “I can do it later.”

Steve sighs, just a little, sits up. “No, we can do that. Come on, there’s a stream nearby and I need to wash my hand.”

Clint snickers at him.

“We’re closed, you can’t come in here!”

“No you’re not,” Clint says, breezing into the blacksmith’s. “Put your hands down, it’s just me.”

“Can’t be too careful,” Tony replies.

He does remove his hands from where they’re covering his ears, though; Clint barely glances at the pointed tips, makes his way over to the rack of weaponry to check out the new things hanging there. It’s not a secret that Tony Stark isn’t human. At least, not to anyone who’s visiting the store. The nobles don’t know - probably a good thing, because they have a habit of (forcibly) recruiting anyone with an ounce of magic.

“Where’s your guard dog, Barton?”

“Knock it off, Tony,” Steve says from the doorway. “You know I’m not a guard dog.”

“You sure do act like one, though,” Tony retorts.

Clint ignores their bickering in favour of moving to the corner he always checks out when he comes here. Tony’s range of weapons is pretty high but Clint always ends up right here, looking at the row of bows hanging up, nearly out of reach.

There’s one that’s been there since Clint walked in the store the first time, made out of a sleek black wood that shimmers purple in the sunlight. He’s pretty sure this is love, and he’s equally sure that Fury would kill him for taking it home. Weapons are unseemly for royals. The bow is the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes upon.

He sighs at it.

The bow does not sigh back at him. He knows, though. She wants him. They’re soulmates destined to be torn apart by their wildly different lifestyles, like one of those romance stories his mother used to keep on the shelf even though Clint wasn’t supposed to read them.

_You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon_ , he signs at her silently.

There was a range at his old home, made up of bales of hay and paper targets. He misses that.

“It’s a good piece,” a voice says right next to his right ear and Clint jumps. It’s just Pepper perched on his shoulder though, delicate orange wings fluttering.

“Yeah,” he says wistfully. “It is.”

“Only ten gold coins,” Pepper adds. “Not to mention Tony would definitely give you a discount. He doesn’t understand how running a business works, he just likes making things.”

“Maybe you should be in charge,” Clint answers.

He gets a quiet laugh for that. “Maybe.”

“I can’t take the bow,” he says, sneaks in another look at it. “But… one day, maybe? Would it be okay if you held onto it for me?”

“It’s yours, when you’re ready,” Pepper replies.

“What can I do for you two fine gentlemen, anyway?” Tony asks, and Clint swivels around to face him. “I’m guessing you don’t want a new shield, O Great Knight of the Prince Barton and the Ruler Fury.”

“The one I’ve got is fine,” Steve says flatly.

“Boring. So what brings you to my home, gentlemen?”

“I wanted to double-check the-” Clint says, waves at his ears without finishing the sentence. He nearly knocks Pepper off her perch and she flies off of his shoulder, lands neatly on a wooden counter. “I couldn’t hear it when Fury was yelling at me the other day. Must’ve said ‘what’ twenty times before I gave up.”

“Hmm,” Tony says. He beckons Clint closer with one finger, clambers onto the counter so he’s at a better height to properly assess the problem. “Why’ve you gotta be so tall, huh? It’s annoying.”

“Buy a stepladder,” Clint answers blandly, turns his back when Tony directs him.

Clint forces himself to stay still as the telltale prickle of magic crawls over his skin. He can see a faint blue light in his peripheries, tries to pay it no attention. He’s been paying for Tony to fix his hearing since he got here but it never _quite_ stops making him nervous, having someone play with his ears like this, and especially with magic.

He’s broken out of his nervous freeze by Steve stepping in front of him. It’s clearly a tactic to distract him from his own discomfort and Clint’s inexplicably relieved by the gloved hand that brushes a stray strand of hair off his forehead. It’s a gentle kind of intimacy and Clint’s so busy staring into Steve’s face that he completely forgets Tony’s even there.

“Done,” Tony announces.

Steve frowns. “Done? What was wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Tony says as Clint turns around, looks up at him. “The magic’s working fine. You could still hear him talking, right? Just couldn’t figure out what he was saying?”

“Yeah?”

“That’s your brain, not your ears,” Tony says with a shrug. “And I’m not poking around in there.”

“Fair enough,” Clint replies. What he’s supposed to do about that, he doesn’t know.

The _bong_ of the clocktower makes them all jump. Steve lets out a sigh that’d be a swearword from anyone less formal than he is, gives Clint a look. It’s a look that says his window of freedom is closing rapidly and Clint lets out a heavy sigh as well. He’s still got grass stains on his knees.

“Please sit here, Prince Barton.”

“Can I just have a chair? Like, a normal chair.”

The maid gives him a blank look and Clint resists the urge to just leave. Instead he’s ushered into the cushiony menace of a seat that sits next to Fury’s throne. The throne is at least a normal seat - if a couple of sizes bigger than it needs to be and covered in gemstones. Clint’s seat is poofy and over-the-top and useless, it’s…

Well, it’s a lot like him, isn’t it?

Clint’s well aware that his royal status isn’t a winning trait by far. Farm boy turns out to be an illegitimate son of the king, becomes their only option after King Harold dies and Prince Barney vanishes.

No one wants him to rule the place. Why would they? The nobles hate him because his mother was a _commoner_ and the normal people hate him because he’s a _snooty royal_. He can’t win. No one takes him seriously. May as well leave Fury to take care of it all.

Clint does miss being treated like a human being, but at least he’s got Steve among all the bullshit and disinterest. Fury starts talking and Clint props his chin up with one hand, lets it all filter out into nothing. He should hire a lookalike. There are shape changers lurking somewhere in the forest, they just don’t like people.

“-and now, to the news of the royal engagement,” a woman in gold announces.

Royal engagement, huh? Sounds like a drag.

He glances at the knights lined up along one side of the wall, helmets held under their arms. Some of them are dressed in the same black and red he’d seen the horses in earlier, and Clint has no clue what country it is. Maybe that’s whoever’s getting married, and they’re passing through.

Fury doesn’t normally suck up to their neighbours, though - he’s kind of terrible at friendly relations and making allies. He’s kind of terrible at being appealing to _anyone_ , including Clint.

“Introducing Princess Natasha Romanoff-”

The woman walking into the hall is in the same black and red as the others, a crimson veil draped over her face. She moves with a comfortable grace that reminds Clint of the way he’s seen the warrior elves in the travelling carts move. Clint’s instantly curious, but-

“-soon to be Barton,” the woman finishes.

Wait, _what_?

“Did you find Barney?”

“No, Prince Barton,” Phil says in that patient (patronizing) voice he uses. “Didn’t Sir Rogers inform you of your engagement?”

Clint turns his stare onto the row of knights. Steve’s looking at the wall opposite himself, standing like a statue. He doesn’t make any attempt to meet Clint’s eye - it almost seems like he’s making an effort to do the _opposite_ , and Clint’s heart sinks. So that’s why he was being so nice this morning. It wasn’t just out of the goodness of his heart.

Steve knew about this and he didn’t say anything.

Clint had expected better, honestly.

“I’m not getting married,” Clint says. “I don’t even _know_ this woman - no offense, I’m sure you’re a blast, but what the fuck, Nick?”

“No offense taken,” comes the amused reply from under the veil.

“You will speak with _respect_ when you talk to me, Your Highness,” Fury says. The first part sounds like a threat. The _Your Highness_ sounds like an insult. “We need this. Make yourself useful for once instead of jumping out windows and bothering the townspeople.”

_Useful_.

“I’m out of here,” Clint mutters, stands up.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Fury snaps. “The wedding is tomorrow and you’re going to be standing at that aisle when Coulson comes to fetch you.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says succinctly, flips him the bird and then turns in a slow circle so it’s pointed at everyone in the room. He puts his finger down when he reaches the princess - she’s as much a victim as he is, Clint’s guessing, so she deserves the little respect he can afford her in this situation.

Once he’s done making everyone gasp with outrage, he stalks towards the exit. He doesn’t look back as Fury starts yelling at him, doesn’t look back when Phil starts trying to talking to him in his calm voice, and he _definitely_ doesn’t look back at Steve.

(He does notice a frazzled-looking maid that’s running after him fall on her face after tripping over a suspiciously-placed shoe from the princess. Clint decides he likes her.)

Clint doesn’t know where he’s going. He just wants out - out of this marriage, this bullshit, this life.

His feet take him to the forest again.

It’s raining this time and the cold water soaks into his stupid fancy clothes, drags him down. He shucks off the coat and vest clumsily, tosses them on the dirt and keeps walking. It’s not like he has to pay for any of it anyway. The forest seems a lot less friendly when he’s on his own, but Clint keeps his eyes off the shadows and focuses on the bubbling anger in his gut.

Turns out it’s hard to stay angry for long when you’re cold and a little heartbroken.

He stops at a lake, realizes he’s never wandered this far before. Where the fuck is he? Aw, shit. If he gets lost he’s never going to live it down. Although this actually wouldn’t even come close to the stupidest thing he’s ever done - and what does it matter if he gets lost? No one would care.

Clint looks down at his reflection in the water. He doesn’t look like a prince. He looks sad and a little fucked up, his shirt soaked and see-through and his cheek smeared with dirt. There’s nothing royal about him. He takes the crown off his head and throws it as far as he can.

He sees the splash, doesn’t hear it over the rain.

“Fuck,” he yells, just because he can, and then he sits down in the rain.

Maybe he’ll get lucky and catch pneumonia. If he spends a couple of weeks stuck in his bed, then the wedding will have to be postponed. That’d work.

Clint’s so busy feeling sorry for himself that he doesn’t even recognize that the footsteps behind him are too heavy, too _powerful_ for a normal human being. His brain assumes it’s probably Steve, and _oh boy_ does he have some goddamn words for Steve fucking Rogers right now. He gets to his feet without turning yet, thinks that if he looks Steve in the eye he might punch him in it too.

But why would that be a bad thing right now?

“I can’t _believe_ you, you fucking jer- oh fuck.”

That’s not Steve.

Instead Clint comes face-to-face with icy blue eyes big enough that he can see himself from the waist-up in them, sleek black scales and curled horns. A wisp of grey smoke escapes from one enormous nostril and Clint watches it disappear into the air with wide eyes.

_Oh shit_ , he thinks, a little hysterically as giant leathery wings spread out above his head and a low rumble vibrates underneath his feet.

He scrambles backwards, completely forgetting about the lake behind him because there’s a _goddamn dragon_ approaching him from the front. In his haste to get away his ankle connects with a sharp rock and he trips backwards in an ungainly heap.

The lake’s water is shockingly cold even though he’s already wet to the bone. It’s deeper than he’d expected and as it surges in around him the dragon draws closer. Clint inhales sharply - to yell for help, to cry, he doesn’t know - and instead swallows a mouthful of water, sending him straight into a coughing fit.

Coughing doesn’t work so well when you’re drowning, as it turns out.

The last thing Clint sees is the dragon looming over him, gone blurry through the water and pain. A silvery clawed leg lands in the water next to him, surges the water over his face even more. He wonders if he’ll be a good meal for it or whether it’ll just chew on his waterlogged corpse for a second and then leave him for someone to find.

He hopes it isn’t Steve.

There’s a fire crackling.

Clint’s whole body aches. Did he drink too much again? It was probably those fae drinks that Tony slipped him - he should know better than to actually put things from Tony in his mouth, it never ends well. He groans and rolls over, grimaces when something digs into his side. There’s going to have to be a new bed delivered at some point.

Wait. He’s not in bed.

Clint sits up abruptly and opens his eyes.

He’s in what looks like a cave of some sorts, high stone walls and rocks piled in haphazard corners. His scraped hands are wrapped in white rags and he reaches up to feel at the one wrapped around his forehead as well. Makeshift bandages. When he glances down, he realizes he’s laying on a pile of shiny trinkets and gold coins.

Oh, right. The dragon. He’s going to be eaten by a dragon. Fantastic.

Can’t be any worse than an arranged marriage, he supposes, falling back onto the coins as they clink and spill onto the floor and away from the weight of his body.

“You’re awake.”

Clint sits up again.

There’s a man crouched by the fire, poking it with a stick.

Clint glances around, but they’re the only people in the cave, so he returns his attention to him.The light from the fire catches off light-coloured eyes and the dark smudges underneath them, a sharp jawline covered in stubble. His hair is long and tangled, and for a minute Clint thinks the off-white streaks he can see are part of the hair until the man shifts and Clint realizes they’re _horns_ , curled and sharp.

He's not a giant lizard, but it's obvious.

“You’re a dragon,” he breathes.

He doesn’t get a reply to that. Doesn’t matter, he supposes. The answer’s obvious. Now he’s looking properly he can see the mottled brown and black scales disappearing under the man’s leather vest and pants. He’s not even wearing a shirt underneath the vest, which would be notably strange if this _entire situation_ wasn’t strange already.

“...this is your dragon lair,” Clint says. “Did you- did you _kidnap_ me?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” the man - the _dragon_ \- mutters, and at this he looks embarrassed. It’s kind of funny, really. “I pulled you out of the water so you wouldn’t drown, and then… it just happened.”

“So you _accidentally_ kidnapped me,” Clint says. “This is… really strange, even for me.”

“It’s a new experience for me, too,” the dragon replies. “I don’t make a habit of stealing people away, you know.”

“I guess I am a prince,” Clint reasons. “Dragons like royalty, right?”

The dragon tips his head, squints. “You don’t look like a prince.”

No, Clint supposes he doesn’t. Especially without the fancy clothes or the crown he’d pitched into the water before his near-death experience. He looks like a mess, is what he looks like. The sigh that escapes his lips is heavier than he means for it to be, and it evokes a thoughtful-sounding noise from the dragon’s direction.

“What’s your name?”

The dragon looks at him. Raises an eyebrow.

“I’m Clint,” he tries.

Oh, good grief. What if dragons don’t even _have_ names in the same sense that people do? What if it’s like the fae and he’s performed some kind of taboo by asking in the first place? Except the dragon’s making a face like he’s not entirely sure what his name is, and that’s a whole other mess that Clint’s not qualified to deal with.

“Can I… leave?”

“No,” the dragon replies instantly, and then frowns like he’s not sure why he said that.

Ah, fuck it.

Clint rolls back over and goes to sleep.

“I got fish,” the dragon tells him.

“Neat,” Clint says. “You know how to remove the bones properly?”

His question is answered for him - a resounding _no_ , because apparently dragons just eat fish whole. It’s kind of nasty, honestly. It becomes ten times worse when the dragon spits out the bones, and Clint’s really wishing he hadn’t seen that. What a mess. He snags one of the fish and a jewel-encrusted knife, starts to fillet it.

The dragon watches his hand movements curiously.

Clint finishes what he’s doing and then tosses the knife at the wall. It sticks into the spot he’s thrown it at, and he nods approvingly at the pattern he’s made. Turns out the dragon has a lot of knives to throw, and Clint’s made a lovely mural out of them.

“I keep expecting you to try and escape,” the dragon says. “Instead you’re making installation art in my home.”

“Eh,” Clint answers. Picks up another knife and tosses it up in the air, catches it again. “You wouldn’t let me, right?”

“I don’t think I could stop you if you really wanted to leave,” the dragon says, reaches over to take the knife off of him. He flips it in his own fingers, deft movements that rival Clint’s, keeps his eyes on Clint as he does it. It’s weirdly intense and a tiny shiver runs up Clint’s spine as he watches. “Don’t want to go home?”

“I didn’t even want to be prince,” Clint answers distractedly. “Should’ve run off when they found me on the farm, told me I was the only living heir to the throne.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Why _didn’t_ you run off? Seems like you’re resourceful enough to handle life without golden plates and diamond rings,” the dragon says, gestures at him with one claw-tipped metal hand. “Not to mention you’re kind of wriggly. They wouldn’t be able to hold onto you for long.”

Clint snorts. “I guess I thought I could change something, I don’t know. Fury just steamrolled me at every turn because I didn’t have the experience, I didn’t have the knowledge, I was too idealistic, I don’t know anything about how to run a country.”

“Nothing wrong with wanting to do better,” comes the reply.

“It is if you ask _them_.”

“Interesting,” the dragon says. “So what did you do? Parties? What is it that princes do?”

“Mostly I banged one of the knights,” Clint says absently, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Never liked knights,” the dragon answers disdainfully. Flips the knife over, glances at him with ice-cold eyes. “Always marching in places they don’t belong with their swords. Pretty sure they’re responsible for the elimination of half the non-human species in the kingdom.”

“They do like their murder,” Clint muses, shrugs. “This one’s different.”

“ _Different_.” It’s dubious.

“I’m being honest. He’s like something out of the cheesy stories your parents told you as a kid, y’know?” Not that his parents bothered with normal things like that. Barney had, when he’d come to the farm crying one day with his knees scraped. “All golden and righteous. Like a dream, except the dream is _exceptionally_ good at sucking dick.”

“That good, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint says, thinks about Steve’s smile. Not the one he uses around other people, not the polite smile that makes him look like a gentleman you’d bring home to your mother; there’s another one, a rarer one. It’s small and mischievous and Clint’s pretty sure he’d kissed Steve the first time he’d seen it, just because it was that beautiful to see.

“Sounds to me like you’re in love with him,” the dragon replies.

Huh.

“Maybe I am,” Clint replies absently. “’s not like it matters. His job’s more important than I am.”

“Is it?”

“Duh. He’d lose his knighthood for consorting with me publicly,” Clint says. “Even if he did choose me over his entire life’s work defending the downtrodden and saving the town, I’d be so consumed by my own guilt that I’d never come out of my rooms again.”

“Room _s_?”

“Part of being rich, apparently. Like six people aren’t sharing a one-room home in other parts of town,” Clint replies.

“Hm,” the dragon says. “Want to throw some knives at the other wall?”

“Doesn’t that bother you?”

“What?”

“The arm,” Clint elaborates, points at it. “It looks like it’s not sitting properly. It shouldn’t be digging into your shoulder like it is, and you keep scratching at it like it’s irritating you.”

The dragon lifts his unburdened shoulder in a shrug. “It’s always been like that.”

That doesn’t sound appealing at all to Clint - it’s worse that he’s _always_ hurting and yeah, maybe the man’s a little too in-tune with his predator instincts with the whole kidnapping thing, but Clint doesn’t want him to be in _pain_. He beckons the dragon closer with one hand. That gets him a faintly puzzled look, so he sighs and gets to his feet, wanders over to where the dragon is sitting and then sits down again.

For a second he’s worried it’s the wrong thing to do, but the dragon hasn’t tried to eat him yet so he’s willing to take his chances. He’s sitting on the dragon’s left side, so it’s easy to see that the metal arm is somehow fused onto the shoulder - no wonder it fucking hurts, honestly. Clint reaches out to touch his fingertips to the scarred mess of skin there, careful to keep his touch feather-light.

The dragon’s shaky exhale has him nervous for a second, but there’s no reaction otherwise so he keeps touching. The scars are bumpy under his fingers, the skin slightly reddened from the irritation he’d noticed earlier.

His fingers touch a metal plate that’s positioned awkwardly in comparison to the others, digging into the delicate skin of the dragon’s armpit. “Aha,” he mutters under his breath, glances at the dragon’s face. “This might hurt for a second.”

“ _What_ might-” and he breaks off into a snarl as Clint pushes the plate into place with a _click_.

Faster than he can register it, he’s being pinned to the floor by clawed hands. He’s too startled to react at first and he’s faintly aware of the scent of smoke and iron filling his nose. Mostly he’s stuck staring at the dragon’s slitted pupils, the gleam of sharp teeth.

There’s so much strength in the move that Clint’s got no hope of escaping. It’s dangerous, extremely dangerous - his life’s in peril but his heart’s beating fast in a way that’s not _entirely_ fear.

“Doesn’t dig in anymore, right?” Clint barely gets the words out - the tension’s so thick he’d have trouble cutting it with a knife, and the look in the dragon’s eyes is frighteningly intense.

The dragon pauses. Frowns.

Clint stares back at him. He’s pretty much at the dragon’s mercy right now, so it’s just a matter of waiting to see what his fate will be. He could try to escape. Part of him is just reckless enough to stay boneless, though.

“It doesn’t hurt as much,” the dragon says slowly.

“There you go,” Clint answers.

The dragon leans in closer, until their noses are brushing. It’s vaguely threatening, especially because he’s still being pinned to the floor. Clint’s breath hitches audibly, embarrassingly, because he’s always been a danger junkie and some stupid part of his brain _likes_ this.

Then the dragon stands up almost as suddenly as he’d lunged at Clint, disappears down a rocky corridor.

Clint just breathes.

It takes him a few seconds to realize his dick is tenting his pants, and a few more seconds to realize that wasn’t the dragon’s knee poking him in the hip.

Clint lost all his dignity years ago, so he doesn’t feel too bad about it when he looks up at the dragon when he returns the next day and says exactly what’s on his mind. They’re friends now, right? Friends can have very little boundaries.

“Want to have sex?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Want to have-” Clint repeats, and the dragon cuts him off before he can finish. His cheeks are flushed like he’s embarrassed by the word itself - Clint wouldn’t have pegged him for a prude, but people have a way of surprising you.

“I _kidnapped_ you,” the dragon says slowly.

“You also saved me from drowning,” Clint reasons.

“I don’t understand. Why would you even want to… do _that_ , with me?”

“I like sex, you’re the only person I can ask, I finished my mural yesterday and now I’m bored,” Clint lists off, gives the dragon a slow, slightly sleazy grin. “Also, you smell pretty good.”

The dragon squints at him. “Is this normal?”

“I think it’s just me,” Clint answers cheerfully.

There’s no reply to that.

“You can say no,” Clint adds. “I just figured you might be into it.”

There’s no reply to that either, so Clint gets up and wanders over to where the golden canteen of water is lying. It’s warm on his tongue but it’s still refreshing enough, although he’s not a fan of everything being gold and jewel-encrusted.

He’s not expecting it when he’s pushed face-first into the wall, and then the dragon’s hot breath is washing over his ear. “You’re sure about this?”

“ _Oh_ yeah,” Clint breathes, as metal claws graze his stomach.


	2. Chapter Two - Steve

“This is a rather small room, isn’t it?”

“The knight’s quarters are being… cleaned, right now,” Steve explains uncomfortably, shifting in his sabatons. Technically the knight’s quarters are empty because the bugs love Scott and there’s an infestation, but it feels impolite to be telling a princess about insects. His mother raised him to be a gentleman when it came to women.

“Hmm,” she says noncommittally. “Tell me about the prince.”

“Clint’s… a good person,” Steve says. “He’d be a good husband.”

“When he isn’t vanishing into the woods for days, you mean?”

“That’s…” he starts, doesn’t know how to finish his sentence. That’s because he didn’t know he was to be married off before the meeting, because the guy who was supposed to tell him about it wanted just one more hour where they were happy together?

Steve’s weak, is the problem. How was he supposed to say anything when Clint was smiling at him like that, like he was something beautiful? They should take his knighthood away from him, just for the way his heart flutters when Clint’s in the room. But they don’t know, and Clint’s getting married to this strange woman when he finds his way home.

Steve doesn’t deserve him anyway.

God, he hopes Clint’s okay. They haven’t let him leave the castle grounds since that day because the princess has taken a shine to him and Fury wants to please her. Steve thinks about the storm, wonders what it would’ve been like to be standing in the middle of it with no protection. Clint’s resourceful, but he’s not weatherproof.

He’ll be fine. He has to be fine.

“I’m so sorry about all of this, Your Highness.”

Natasha turns away from her inspection of his (admittedly never used) broadsword to look at him. The expression on her face is all-too knowing in a way that makes Steve’s skin crawl a little. She’s done away with the veil and Steve almost wishes she hadn’t, because it feels like she’s looking right through him to see all the messed-up parts inside.

“Were you born into a well-off family, Sir Rogers?”

“Not at all,” Steve says. “My dad left when I was a baby. My mother and I fought for every scrap of food we could get.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Natasha answers, running her finger along the blade. “But you chose the life you lead, no? When you are born to people in so-called high society, you are shoved into a role, regardless if it fits. Often, we are just playthings for our country, nothing more.”

“Clint wasn’t born into this,” Steve replies. “He was brought in when his brother left.”

“Then it must be even worse for him, to have that freedom snatched away,” Natasha says.

“But you’re royals. You have the opportunity to _change_ things,” Steve says.

Natasha twirls the sword in a slow, graceful arc, meets his gaze again. “Then why are we being forced to get married, if we have all the opportunities?”

“I want you to let me go looking for Cl- Prince Barton.”

“Prince Barton,” Fury says with a scowl, “is not a child. I refuse to waste any manpower looking for him while he acts like this.”

“But we should-”

“Get back to your post, Rogers.”

Shit. Steve runs a hand through his hair, tries to think of some way to get around this. The other knights are watching him curiously and they don’t know about him and Clint but they’re _going to_ if he keeps being so obvious. He keeps the falsely casual expression on his face with some effort, fights down the urge to start yelling.

“The quicker we send out a search party, the quicker the wedding can proceed,” he says. Fury doesn’t care about Clint’s well-being; Steve’s got to appeal to him with something _he_ wants.

“We don’t have the numbers to spare for a search party and you’re not going alone,” Fury says. “Get out of my hall and get to work.”

Steve doesn’t move. Clint could be out there lying in a ditch somewhere and Fury doesn’t care because he doesn’t think Clint’s _useful_ enough to spend time looking for. If he sneaks out now they’re going to notice he’s taken a horse, and they’ll also notice if he doesn’t because he’s made noises now and brought their attention to him.

Guess he’s going to lose his knighthood and ignore orders, then.

He turns around, decision made, and nearly runs straight into Natasha.

The veil’s over her face again, but this close he can see the shadow of a smile underneath. Steve feels that strange sensation again - like she knows things he hasn’t said out loud to anyone, and he’s faintly suspicious that Natasha isn’t a human at all.

“I wish to recover my fiance, Ruler Fury. I’d like to offer my own knights to go with Sir Rogers in the search party,” Natasha says smoothly.

“I-” Fury says, but Natasha’s already turned to the closest knight in black and red.

“Is that agreeable to you, Sir Wilson?”

“It is. Lead the way, Sir Rogers,” Wilson says. “We’re not familiar with the area, so we’ll take direction from you.”

He doesn’t smirk at Steve but there’s a knowingly amused look in his eyes when he turns them away from Natasha. When Steve glances back at the princess she tilts her head to the side like she’s waiting to see what his reaction is. It cements the idea that they know exactly what they’re doing, and for some reason they’ve decided to be on his side of things.

Steve’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Right this way,” he says, starting to walk in the direction of the stables.

“First the prince, and now you. She doesn’t normally take a shine to people this quickly,” Wilson remarks.

“I’m glad she did,” Steve answers grimly. “Let’s go find Clint.”

“Found something?”

“Think so,” Wilson - no, Steve’s supposed to call him Sam now - says grimly.

Steve draws closer to the lakeside where Sam’s kneeling and his heart clenches tight in his chest when he sees the mud-encrusted crown. For a second he hopes maybe it’s just a surprising coincidence, but as Sam flicks some of the muck off the gold Steve recognizes the crest on the front.

“It’s his,” Steve says. Somehow the words come out calm and even despite the way it tears up his insides on the way.

Sam must pick up on something in Steve’s expression, because he flicks a hand at the other knights milling around. “Fan out along the shore. See if you can find anything else.”

_See if you can find a corpse_ , he means. A horse snorts from behind him and the knights ride away to follow Sam’s orders. It leaves Steve standing here alone in the shallows with only Sam for company, and he can feel himself sagging now there’s not a crowd watching him. Sam’s bird is watching him too, gleaming yellow eyes fixed on his chestplate.

“Does he have any places he likes to visit around here?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been out this far,” Steve says, looking around. “Not since I’ve met him, at least. Fury’s not fond of letting him wander far.”

“Well, if that isn’t depressing,” Sam remarks. He gets to his feet carefully, offers the crown to Steve. Steve takes it, because he doesn’t see another option that isn’t either rude or extremely telling, and Sam turns back to look at the lake’s surface thoughtfully.

If Clint was here he’d be cracking a joke, or trying to steal Steve’s shield to throw.

“Hey, Steve? Take a look at that.”

Steve glances up in the direction Sam’s pointing, squints. The sun’s in his eyes but he can make out the shape of a mountain on the other side of the lake. He shields his eyes with one hand and looks again, catches the shape of a cave opening near the bottom. A cloud of grey smoke rises from it.

“People?”

“Where I come from, people don’t hang out in caves unless they have to,” Sam says. “And judging from this footprint I just found, you’ve got yourself a dragon.”

“I’ll check it out first,” Steve says. “It’ll be quieter that way, and we don’t want to go in there making too much noise if we don’t know what’s in there.”

Sam, surprisingly, doesn’t argue with him. “You’re sure?”

“If it is a dragon, I promise not to antagonize it,” Steve answers.

That gets a smile from Sam. “If you don’t come back, I’m not coming to rescue you.”

Steve slips his shield off his back, shifts it onto his arm. The other knights are watching him curiously and he takes a deep breath, releases it. Alright. Honestly, if he finds Clint’s body he might _not_ come back for the knights, because even the thought of it gets his blood boiling. He hasn’t even though about what he’ll do if Clint _is_ gone.

The cave is deeper than he’d first thought. It feels like he’s walking down one of the winding corridors that lead to the tunnels underneath the castle. The darkness settles around him and Steve focuses on keeping his breathing even as he walks.

A noise breaks him out of his focus.

It’s too quiet for him to recognize, and then he hears a thump and a sharp gasp in a voice that’s all too familiar. Steve breaks into a run, his heart slamming against his ribs as he sees a light up ahead and piles of gold and jewels and Clint’s saying _please, no_ , and-

Steve stops.

It takes him a few seconds to realize what’s going on, because Clint’s got his head thrown back with his eyes shut and his expression could be pleasure _or_ pain. He’s letting out short, choppy noises with every sharp movement and it’s _almost_ sobbing at this point, scruffy hair damp with sweat. There’s silver claws digging into his back hard enough for a thin line of blood to be trailing down his spine.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Clint says, and Steve’s heard _that_ tone of voice before. “Do that again, yeah, I’m-”

The dark shadow who’s lap he’s sitting on grabs Clint’s hips hard enough to hurt, pulls him down rough enough for Clint to dissolve into incoherent moaning, drowning out the wet slap of skin on skin.

Steve’s abruptly, upsettingly hard in his pants.

He’s also just _upset_.

He takes a step back to leave and his shield grazes the stone wall. The scraping noise makes him cringe, but even worse is the way Clint’s breath hitches and stops. Steve grimaces and he’s about to flee when a rumbling, terrifying growl fills the cavern.

“Shit, don’t turn into a giant lizard while I’m sitting on your dick,” he hears Clint say. “Hey, whoever you are, you’re pissing off a dragon and also _me_ so you might want to get lost.”

Steve doesn’t move for a few long seconds and then all he can come up with is, “sorry.”

Clint moves so fast he ends up on his back on the rock floor. It looks painful but Clint just scrambles up onto his knees, eyes wide and reflecting the firelight. He’s - he looks like he’s lost a fight with a blender but there’s none of the flat emptiness that’s usually in his gaze, just shock.

“Steve?”

“Clint. I thought you were _dead_ ,” Steve chokes out. He can’t breathe.

“Yeah, well, so did my dad when he threw a pitcher at my head that one time. I am _remarkably_ hard to kill,” Clint says.

It’s exactly the kind of blase attitude he expects from Clint, but it doesn’t make this any less stressful. The shadowy figure raises his head and under the tangled mess of hair there’s a human face there, unnervingly pretty and also very, very familiar.

“Bucky?”

“Steve?”

“ _Clint_ ,” Clint says, and they stop staring at each other to look at him. “What the fuck are we doing?”

“I,” Bucky says, voice gravelly but instantly recognizable all the same. The horns are new, as is the metal arm and the glint of sharp fangs when he opens his mouth, but it’s definitely him. “We, uh. We sorta know each other.”

“Good _lord_ ,” Steve says. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to expletives. “I need to. Erm. There’s a party of knights outside that I need to deal with, now that we’re not killing the dragon. You’re not dying or being harmed, Prince Barton?”

Clint cringes at the use of _Prince Barton_ but he doesn’t dispute it. “No. I’m okay.”

Steve turns around and heads back outside. Sam’s waiting by the entrance for him, stroking careful fingers down the bird’s sleek feathers. He’s smiling at her and Sam has definitely not been turned into or is fucking a supernatural beast, and it’d be so easy if Steve stayed with Sam instead of dealing with what he’s just seen.

Steve’s not even sure he has the mental capacity to deal with this.

Sam looks up at him. “You’re alive. Is it a dragon?”

“Yes,” Steve says shortly.

Sam frowns. “So should we… go kill it?”

“I can handle this, thank you,” Steve says, and his voice comes out dangerously strained. “Why don’t you head back to town and I’ll take care of everything? Here’s a bag of silver, buy yourself and the rest of the party some drinks. Have a good time.”

“You’re going to slay a dragon on your own,” Sam says dubiously.

“...not exactly,” Steve answers.

Steve’s very tempted to just leave them to it, but that would mean leaving without _answers_ so he returns to the cavern and tries not to think too hard about how his life just got approximately fifty times more complicated.

Clint’s recovered his pants when Steve gets back, although he’s still got no shirt and when he shifts Steve can see raised red lines along his stomach and down the curve of his spine. They’re clearly from the sharp-tipped metal arm on Bucky’s left side. Bucky himself has managed to dress in full leather, and Steve sits down on a rock next to them and then just _stares_.

It’s been - god, it’s been _years_ , he doesn’t even know how long.

“You were friends with a dragon, Steve? How come you never told me about this?”

“He wasn’t a dragon,” Steve says, looks at Bucky’s shining left arm and then up to his face. “Not then.”

“That came later,” Bucky agrees quietly.

Steve realizes that his hand’s moving to reach out to Bucky, stops.

“So,” Clint says, clearly unsure of how to proceed. “How do you two know each other?”

“We were… it doesn’t matter,” Steve says without looking away from Bucky. “You ran off, Clint. I thought - how are you _alive_ , Bucky?”

Bucky lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Just couldn’t stay dead. You’re a knight now, huh?”

“I am,” Steve says, looks down at the bird imprinted on his chestplate.

“He’s the _head_ knight,” Clint butts in, breaking the uncomfortable silence. Steve gives him a _look_ but Clint’s immune to those and just tips his head to the side curiously. That’s the expression he usually makes when he’s figuring out something interesting and Steve’s oddly reminded of the princess, wonders if it’s a royal thing or just _them_.

“Oh,” Bucky says thoughtfully. “ _This_ is your knight you were talking about.”

Clint was talking about _him_? It didn’t look like they were doing any talking to Steve when he’d walked in on them. (Were they talking about him _while_ they were having sex?) The heat that rushes up to Steve’s face is stupid and unwarranted - there’s no need for it.

_This is too much to deal with_ , he thinks to himself. He was supposed to search for Clint, find Clint, take Clint home to be married to his fiance and promptly discard his own feelings about the matter. Instead Clint’s not coming home because he’s been sleeping with a dragon in a cave, and the dragon is - why can’t things ever be _simple_?

“Right,” he says, resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. “Clint, we’re going home. Bucky, I - we need to talk, I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

“Nah,” Clint says.

“ _Clint_ ,” Steve says.

Clint looks at him impassively. It’s not his normal look when Steve starts ordering him around - usually he’ll either make a face that says he’s going to do the opposite just to be a pain, or he’ll start bargaining. There’s never been this unimpressed sort of _no_ before. He notices the way Bucky’s slowly edging closer to Clint, settles a hand on Clint’s knee in a faintly possessive way.

Somehow Clint marrying a complete stranger was easier to process than Clint sleeping with the guy Steve was in love with for most of his adolescent life.

“What’s the point, Steve? It’s not like I’m a valuable member of society.”

“The point is that you’re the prince and you’re _engaged_ ,” Steve grits out.

“Without my consent,” Clint says. “And you didn’t even have the decency to say anything before it was dumped on me. Which - what the _fuck_ , Steve? Did all the time we spent together really mean that little to you?”

“Clint,” Steve says, a little desperately. Clint’s obviously had enough though, and he gets to his feet and walks towards the exit, arms wrapped around himself like that’s going to protect him from the freezing winds outside.

“Well,” Bucky says. “That was a whole fuckin’ mess.”

Steve’s inclined to agree with him.

Clint doesn’t come back and so Steve’s left sitting in an increasingly uncomfortable silence with Bucky.

“How did this _happen_ ,” he says when Bucky doesn’t do anything.

“Apparently dragon instincts dictate that stealing royals is something you have to do. Also, he tripped and nearly drowned,” Bucky answers without looking directly at Steve. “The sex was his idea, I ain’t responsible for that part.”

“Not _that_ ,” Steve says. “Bucky. You’re not even _human_ anymore, and I saw you - I thought - what _happened_ to you?”

“Curse,” Bucky says. Doesn’t elaborate.

Steve tries again. “A witch’s curse?”

“Nah,” comes the reply.

Well, now Steve knows where Clint’s learned _that_ from. Bucky doesn’t seem to pick up on his inner turmoil - he’s picking at something stuck on his leather vest absently, and even his non-metal hand has dark, sharp claws instead of normal fingernails.

“I missed you,” he says, and that’s what finally makes Bucky look him in the eye.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Didn’t have anyone to stop you doing stupid shit while I was gone, didja?”

“Hey,” Steve says. “I haven’t-”

Bucky lifts an eyebrow. “Why have I got your boy, then?”

“He’s not my boy.”

“Funny that,” Bucky says. “Because it _seems_ like you’re in love with each other. You ever thought that maybe you shouldn’t be letting him get married to some random woman? Especially because _he_ doesn’t want to get married to her either.”

“He doesn’t have a ch-”

“Stop it,” Bucky interrupts. “What happened to _you_? Used to be the tiniest whiff of injustice and you’d be squaring up to squash it.”

Steve stops. Frowns at him. Bucky is also immune to all of Steve’s looks _and_ he has the added bonus of his own no-nonsense stare, which is far more effective than Steve’s. Hell, maybe he’s right. Bucky usually is, unfortunately. Still, Clint’s the only person in the country with a position of power and a set of decent morals, so what’s he supposed to do?

“If I’d known you were alive I would’ve come to see you,” Steve says.

Bucky’s lips curve up in a tiny smile. “I know.”

“Okay, I’m too cold to be mad anymore,” Clint announces as he shuffles back inside.

He makes an immediate beeline for Bucky, and Steve doesn’t know how to feel about that - how to feel about any of this, really - but as he watches Bucky’s expression softens and he curls an arm over Clint’s shoulders, carefully tugs him into his lap. It’s oddly tender for just sex, and Bucky’s got his nose pressed against Clint’s hair like it’s comforting to have him close.

Clint looks pretty happy about it, too.

“I’m sorry for not telling you about the engagement,” Steve tells him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t send a pigeon to tell you I wasn’t dead,” Clint answers, a rueful smile on his face. “Not that there are pigeons here.”

“Alright,” Steve says.

“Alright,” Clint agrees. “Hey, do you want to have sex?”

“Wh - _now_?”

Clint shrugs. “What else are we doing?”

“Fuck, that’s incredible,” Clint says as Bucky bares his teeth and just _rips_ off Clint’s pants like they’re made of parchment. Steve laments his lack of self-preservation. “I don’t have any spare clothes, though.”

“We’ll find some later,” Bucky replies, flips Clint over onto his stomach.

The rough treatment would be more concerning if it wasn’t also kind of attractive, and if Clint wasn’t clearly enjoying it. Steve decides it’s best not to say anything about it and just watches as Clint pulls out a tin of slick from nowhere, sinks a couple of fingers inside himself and sighs. Bucky uses his knees to spread Clint’s legs wider and Steve’s breath catches at the sight.

“Steve,” Clint says. “C’mere, we’re not putting on a show for you.”

“We could,” Bucky mutters, lips quirking up into a smirk. “You’re pretty enough for it.”

“Yeah, well,” Clint answers, and he actually looks a little pleased by that. “I can’t get my mouth on his dick if he’s all the way over there, can I?”

“Good point,” Bucky says. He tugs Clint’s fingers out of his ass and slicks up his own dick, yanks Clint’s hips up so he’s on his knees and shoves in roughly. It’s a little mean but Steve can see the hazy look in Clint’s eyes and figures it’s okay to be turned on by it if Clint is. Steve’s whole body is flooded with heat from watching, good lord.

This is one of the most strange situation he’s ever been in but somehow he ends up shucking off his armour with some difficulty and then his gambeson before he walks on his knees to where Clint’s bracing himself on his elbows. Clint seems agreeable to this as well, drags his mouth wetly down the shaft of Steve’s dick and then moans when Bucky grinds his hips in a slow circle, the sound vibrating against Steve’s dick.

Steve watches him for a moment, doesn’t realize how much he’d missed just having Clint around, sex or not. Although the sex seems to be an unavoidable part of having Clint around.

“You good?” The question’s directed at Clint, and Bucky’s voice is rough.

“Mm,” Clint says, distracted.

The way they’re set up means that Steve’s facing Bucky as he fucks Clint, and he can see Bucky’s teeth caught in his lip. Bucky’s gaze is fixed on where Clint’s trying to sloppily suck at Steve’s dick, wet noises filling the air. A quiet noise escapes Steve’s lips and Bucky’s attention snaps up to his face. He’s still so _beautiful_ , and it’s been so long.

Steve’s tentative, reaches out to Bucky’s face and then stops. He doesn’t even know if he’s still welcome to touch, whether Bucky still feels the same way he used to. “Can I - do you mind?”

“You can do anything you want,” Bucky replies, the intensity in his eyes focused on Steve’s face even as he snaps his hips forward hard enough to elicit a gasp from Clint. “Anything.”

That’s what finally kicks Steve into action, makes him curl his fingers around one curved horn and tug Bucky close enough that their lips can touch. The kiss is a little awkward with Clint in the middle but they manage. Bucky’s teeth graze Steve’s lip and they’re so sharp that it stings, the taste of metal filling the kiss and Steve doesn’t even care, it pales in comparison to the knowledge that Bucky’s here and they’re together and Clint’s here and they’re together too.

It’s like his worst and best fantasy.

Except in a fantasy his knees wouldn’t be getting scraped by a rock floor. Steve’s overwhelmed by it all and then Clint’s warm hand wraps around his dick with his tongue pressed against the head, and Bucky bites Steve’s lip again and he’s shaking and coming. His vision goes white for a second.

Clint’s making those sharp oversensitive noises when he comes back to himself and Steve pets a hand through his hair automatically, can’t stop himself from shivering when Clint moans against his bare hip.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Yes,” Steve answers Bucky, looking him in the eye as he runs his fingers down Clint’s shoulder blade, just grounding him as Bucky’s thrusts get more punishing and Clint hiccups out a sob and pushes his ass back into it.

Because well, who wouldn’t enjoy it?

They’re silent afterwards for a while.

Clint’s shaky and his face is damp with tears, which would be more worrying if he didn't seem pretty satisfied with it. Steve’s still touching both of them - mostly because he’s not entirely sure this isn’t a dream or some kind of a hallucination. Neither of them seem to mind, thankfully.

“Thank you for coming to rescue me,” Clint says, cupping his cheek gently. “Even if I didn’t need it. I’m sorry I can’t be the fancy royal you want me to be.”

“I want you to be _you_ ,” Steve answers.

He earns a smile for that - a genuine, understated little thing.

“So you’re… you’re not coming home?”

“I don’t see the point,” Clint replies. “What am I doing there, Steve? I’m just Fury’s puppet. It’s not like people would miss my fantastic company and witty banter.”

“ _I_ would,” Steve says.

“I know you would,” Clint says. “But it’s not like I can do anything there. May as well become a mountain hermit, right?”

“This ain’t none of my business,” Bucky says. “But why don’t you just _make_ them listen to you?”

Clint tips his head in Bucky’s direction. He looks curious. “What’re you suggesting?”

“Steve wants you to do something in court and you don’t want to listen to this Fury fella,” Bucky says. “ _Do_ something. Take it over.”

“...huh,” Clint says. “How would that work?”

“Easy,” Bucky answers, sits up and stretches out his arms. Something _pops_ and the hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stand up. When Bucky glances back at them, his eyes look almost luminous. “No one fucks with a man riding a dragon.”

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

Fury’s shouting at everyone that runs past, but no one’s paying him any heed. Most of the knights fled when they saw the giant black dragon landing in the courtyard, and the ones that didn’t are Steve’s friends - the black and red-clad knights barely bat an eyelid at the sight, and Sam waved at Steve when their eyes met.

A vein bulges in Fury’s forehead when he notices Steve and Clint standing there nonchalantly, and for a second Steve thinks that perhaps this is an awful mistake.

“Prince Barton,” Fury says. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“This is a - it’s a - shit, I forgot the word,” Clint says. “A coop dee tar? Doesn’t matter. You’re going into retirement, Fury.”

He starts wandering in the direction of the throne room and Fury follows him.

Steve follows both of them. The only people in the throne room is Natasha, looking supremely unsurprised by everything going on around here, and a very frazzled-looking Scott.

“Hey, Nat,” Clint says, turning to look at her as he slides onto the throne, kicks his feet up. “The engagement’s off.”

“I’d guessed,” Natasha replies dryly.

“ _But_ ,” he adds, “if you want to hang around, we can send a letter to your folks and pretend you died falling down some stairs or whatever. You’ll be free to do whatever you want, obviously, and we’re missing a few knights and royal advisors.”

Steve watches her face as Clint says that and Natasha’s expression softens for a split second before it fades back into neutrality. “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Alright,” Clint says, waving Scott over. “Scott, my friend, give the lady a tour of the weapons house and give her whatever she wants to hold onto. Don’t let the ants eat her while you’re in there.”

“You are making a mistake,” Fury says. “You know that, Barton? This place won’t survive a _week_ with you in charge. You haven’t got a single clue what you’re doing.”

“That’s what Steve’s for,” Clint replies. “He’s got all these ideas, y’know? And the experience you always say I don’t have.”

Steve’s so shocked by that - Clint’s giving _him_ power? - that he nearly misses Bucky slipping in next to him, looking around the room curiously. There’s a smear of dark red on his lips but Steve decides that the less he knows about _that_ , the better.

“This is _not_ how you rule a country,” Fury says. He looks like he’s going to say more, but there’s a dangerous rumble from Bucky’s direction and when Steve glances over, a few ominous wisps of black smoke disappearing into the air.

“Looks like it is now,” Clint says cheerfully, kicking his feet up on the throne. “Seeya, Nick.”

Fury’s expression turns downright murderous at that. He’s severely outnumbered, though, and no one in their right mind would piss off a dragon. Steve’s prepared to jump to Clint’s rescue but Fury doesn’t even try, just turns on his heel and stalks out.

“He’ll probably be back,” Clint comments.

“Are you... sure about this?”

“You wanted me to do something about everything that’s going on,” Clint says with a shrug. “Use my royal status. I’m using it to give you the opportunity to change things.”

Steve doesn’t even know if this is going to _work_. It’s… possible this could _work_ , though. It’d be incredible if it did - those women having trouble with goblins who couldn’t pay for the knights, he can change that. Tony and Pepper could stop hiding themselves away. He can do away with all the laws that hurt people.

Hmm.

Bucky cocks his head at Clint. “So, what now?”

“I’m gonna take a trip to the blacksmith’s,” Clint says. “There’s a lady I’ve been waiting my whole life to get my hands on. And then I want one of you to fuck me on the throne, just to upset Fury some more."

Of course he does.

The sound of Bucky’s laughter banishes the rest of Steve’s anxiety. Maybe they _can_ do this, after all.


End file.
